A Latke For Your Thought-Ke

 

Nothing rhymes with latkes

In English that is true
In Yiddish try gatkes

Long underwear to you 

Shredded spuds, golden brown

A Hanukkah delight

Grab a plate, sit right down

Menorahs shining bright

Fried or baked or frozen

It's all delish to me

Some may call us Chosen
Ask Judah Maccabee

The Illusion of Control

This is not what my table looks like.

"Sometimes, it's important to give people the illusion of being in control." So says Tony Soprano. When it comes to Thanksgiving, this is my mantra. To maintain the illusion of control, I do everything too early. I set the table too early. I overthink every detail too early. And most importantly, I buy the turkeys too early, especially this year. If you threaten me with a turkey shortage, I will respond, accordingly. A few weeks back, I called a guy. It went something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Gobbles speaking."

"Gobbles, hi, it's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Short Jewish what?"

"Never mind, Gobbles. I need turkeys. Two of 'em. The brined ones. Capiche?"

"I got ya. No worries. They're comin' in next Thursday, 9 a.m. Call first. Ask for me. I'll set ya up. "

"Great. Thanks, Gobbles. You're a mensch."

Exactly one week later, at 9 a.m., I call Trader Joe's. It goes something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Cranberry speaking."

"Cranberry, hi. It's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Hi. I'm the Tall Catholic Goddess." 

"I need to talk to Gobbles."

"Gobbles doesn't work here any more."

"Wait. What?"

"They canned him."

"I don't understand."

"They caught him selling our beloved, highly-coveted brined turkeys off the back of his truck late last night."

"What kind of person does that?"

"A guy named Gobbles, that's who." 

"Bastard!"

"I know, right?"

"Cranberry, tell me, are there any brined turkeys left?"

"There might be two in the back. I'll go check." 

"Hurry, Cranberry. Hurry. My Thanksgiving depends on it."

Two minutes later, she returns.

"You're in luck. I got two 18-pounders."

"Bless you, Cranberry. I'll be right over." 

I arrive, and there she is. Cranberry. A crown of red berries in her hair, a beatific smile on her punim. She beckons me forward. "Be cool," she says, and takes me in the back. Awaiting me: the brined turkeys. The only two left. I express my gratitude. Cranberry nods. "You're welcome." I rush home and make room in the fridge. Every day, I look at my turkeys and feel good about my life. Now all I have to do is cook them to total perfection. Or at least create that illusion for 21 guests. 

Oh, Halloween

Oh, Halloween, oh Halloween!

Come dressed as Mufasa

Come to our walkway

We'll hide in our casa 

Gather 'round the table

We're giving out treats

Straight from the bowl outside 

Some sanitized sweets  

And while we are hiding

The pumpkin is burning low

Don't ring our Ring! 

We're not answering 

To protect us from germs, so just go-oh-oh-oh!

Don't ring our Ring!

We're not answering 

To protect us from germs, so just go!

The Upside Down

Hey, has anyone seen longtime hubby? Step into the time machine, why don't you, and travel back with me a few weeks. Let's see if we can find him. Oh, wait, never mind, that's him, over at Billy and Chloé's, just hanging upside down, as one does, after our daughter-in-law calls a few hours before she's due at the hospital, and all I can hear is "... water broke." "Your water broke?" I ask, ever-so-calmly, for calmness defines me. Fine. What I really do is scream, "YOUR WATER BROKE?" "No, no," she says, "the water broke on the washing machine. It's flooding the kitchen." At least that explains why longtime hubby is dangling, as he tries to fix a pipe. Ultimately, he calls a... what's that word he hates? Oh, yes. Plumber. 

Lucas (The S Is Silent) Who?

In general, the past few weeks have turned Claire's world upside down. She's wondering, "Who is this brand new human? And when is he going back?" 

Sorry. He's staying put. 

Of course, Claire finds her dethronement from Only Child perplexing. But I like to think that underneath the confusion, she's remarkably "oppie" to her new role as Big Sis. "Oppie" is her go-to command, you know. During her luxurious stay at the Palatial SJG Estate, while we awaited Lucas (the S is Silent!), we played a lot of "Oppie! Oppie!" As in Open Something. The door, the drawer, the cabinet, the thing preventing her from getting into mischief. Go on and "oppie" and then stand back and hope for the best. Nothing made Claire laugh more than making me "oppie" the door and walk out, so she could then close it in my face and watch me beg to come back in. "Open Sesame!" I'd say. Nothing. "Oppie Sesame! Please! Please! Claire-Bear!" usually got me in, eventually. I find it's always better to speak her language, an intoxicating blend of French, English and Yiddish. True, her Yiddish needs work, but I promise, I'll have her saying "Oy!" before she's two. 

"Oy!" truly sums up her current mood, a grab bag of emotions. The arrival of Lucas (did I mention the S is Silent?) has left our favorite toddler somewhat farklempt. She'd rather squeeze into her old Dock-A-Tot or crawl around on the floor, pretending she's the baby, than hear "No!" or eat the fish sticks on her plate. This phase she's in, I believe it's called regression. I've been there a few times myself, and that's just in the past year.  

Despite the challenges, look how well she's doing with her baby brother in this totally unposed photo. I see good things for these siblings. Great friendship. Unbridled fun. Laughter galore.

And look how well I'm doing in this photo. 

The Shopping Gene

June 1995

"Come back friends," my dad would say, whenever my mom and I left to go shopping. The issue was always the same. She wanted me to look stylish. I wanted to blend in. She wanted me to try something new. I wanted to play it safe. The shopping gene didn't kick in for a few decades. We'd stand in the dressing room at an impasse. She thought I looked great. I thought I looked ridiculous. It was hard to compromise. Yet no matter how much I pouted, how much I resisted change, I wanted to please her. Which explains that one time I showed up at school in white Go-Go boots and blue and white plaid knickers, when the dress code called for worn-out bell bottoms. I'd committed a major fashion don't. The look of horror on the face of my junior high crush as I walked by continues to haunt me. Today marks 22 years without my fashion-forward mom. I think of all the things she's missed, the wonderful family additions and celebrations. What I'd give to go shopping with her again. And come back friends.

Your Warranty Has Expired

"Good morning, Rapidly Aging Short Jewish Gal. The mensches at Schlepper Auto Services of Van Nuys, you know the place, with the complimentary chocolate babka, a little stale but still tasty, thought we should warn you that your warranty on patience has already expired or is about to expire any second now. But please, don't panic. Or maybe panic a little, we hear it's your specialty. Not that we judge. By pressing 1, you can fix things by signing up for an extended warranty on patience at the low cost of... you have to press 1 to find out. By pressing 2, you can't fix anything and will face the legal consequences. By pressing 3, or worse, hanging up, we'll haunt your phone, not to mention your dreams, for eternity and in terms of patience, you never had much to begin with, so why are we wasting our time? Shana tova."

Atonement In Progress

On the eve of Yom Kippur, my atonement list isn't all that long, probably because I've gone nowhere and done bupkis in the past year, other than sit on my tuchas and binge watch darkly dystopian television. Since last Yom Kippur, I've barely yelled at anyone or flipped anyone off. Well, that's not completely true, I did flip off a jaywalker after he called me a bitch for not screeching to a halt and causing a pile-up on Magnolia so he could cross in the middle of a very busy boulevard. Still, I waited till he was out of view to flip him off, so he didn't see my hostile, well-deserved gesture. So it doesn't really count, does it? Of course not. Now, I'm not saying I've been a perfect human, but I've behaved better than other years. If that doesn't get me inscribed in the Book of Life Is Life, what will? Maybe this silly atonement song. Then again, maybe not. 

You better not cheat

You better not lie

You better not eat
I'm telling you why
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God's making a list
And checking it twice
Gonna find out who's atoning their vice
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God knows when you are fasting

God knows when you're a fake

God knows when you've been bad or worse

So atone for kugel's sake

May you be inscribed in 

The Book of Life Is Life